Scars and kisses
by BlueVase
Summary: Shelagh thinks about the past few weeks during the ride to the adoption agency to pick up Angela and finds hope and faith in her memories. TW: none, I think.


**For lauramainxmyangel, who requested a fic describing the ride to the adoption agency after making me a glorious moodboard. I hope you like it!**

Shelagh rubbed the scar on her hand. It was a nervous habit she had picked up ever since the Summer Fete, now over a year ago. It was not so much a scar anymore as a silvery line that crossed the other lines of her palm, but her sensitive fingertips could still discern the slightly raised skin.

 _How much has changed since that day,_ she couldn't help but think. She had been a nun then, and so confused. Her feelings for Doctor Turner had swelled till they were almost all-consuming, yet she could not reconcile them with her faith. Now she was the doctor's wife, sitting next to him as they were driving to the adoption agency to go and pick up their child.

 _The child you thought you would never have,_ Shelagh thought. A faint twinge in her abdomen reminded her of another scar, one that would not fade into a gentle silver.

 _Maybe your bareness is a sign; maybe you are not ready for another child yet._ The thought was almost physically painful. Shelagh pushed her nails against the scar and shivered. Patrick took her hand in his without his eyes leaving the road and squeezed it gently. She smiled at him.

"Can we take the baby home right away?" Timothy asked from the backseat.

"Yes, Tim," Patrick said.

"What will she be like, I wonder?"  
"We all wonder, Timothy," Shelagh said. She turned her face to the window. The buildings that zipped past worked soothing and strangely hypnotising. Soon, Shelagh found her attention turning inward, to the past few weeks.

X

Shelagh was not someone who let her anger show often. In fact, the sharp words she had spoken on the evening of the disastrous interview had been the first in years. They had jumped out of her lungs and crawled out of her mouth before she could get a hold of herself. Afterwards, as she had lain in bed, cold and upset and alone, she had repeated them over and over till they lost all meaning.

The days that followed had been just as confusing as when she was still Sister Bernadette. She had reached out to Patrick, only to be refused. There was a wall around him, or armour, that she could not penetrate. The usual sparkle of his eyes had dimmed, showing her that he was more like an automaton that a living human; he went through all the motions required of him, but there was nobody home. The real Patrick had retreated into a place where she could not reach him. Only this Friday he'd turned up with the men's group at the Parish Hall, completely ignorant of the fact that his wife and son would be there with the choir, despite them being there every single week.

Shelagh had initially tried to deal with her emotional turmoil as if she had still been Sister Bernadette: she had thrown herself into work. The house, normally clean and tidy, became positively spotless. She baked pies and pastries and cakes, washed all the china till it shone and attacked the floor with hot water till the surface could almost be used as a mirror. She discovered, however, that there was little difference in spending her time on her knees in a chapel with folded hands or on her knees in the living room with hands holding a soapy rag: her mind wandered, regardless. At night, when she was alone because Patrick spent most of his time away from home, she could not sleep. Her body was exhausted, but her mind refused to let her rest till she had dealt with the emotions she repressed. Shelagh felt herself being pulled apart by contradictions: she was so tired yet seemed to possess endless energy, she was mad with her husband yet wanted nothing more than for him to take her into her arms and kiss all her fury away, and she wanted to touch him yet couldn't bring herself to do so.

"He thinks I am a child," she said out loud one afternoon to no one in particular. She was up to her elbows into soapy water, giving the china another bath.

She remembered how he had wagged his finger at her during one of their little arguments and felt her skin prickle with anger. And she, what had she done? She had crumbled and apologised immediately, exactly as she would have done if it had been her father speaking to her and not her husband. She had behaved as if she was still a girl.

 _No wonder he didn't trust you enough to tell you about his past,_ a mean little voice sneered.

"No, you will not make this about me. _I_ am not the one keeping secrets," she said, her words clipped.

 _Aren't you? You aren't the greatest communicator yourself, you know. You can't even tell him when you want to share one of his cigarettes. You can't tell him what you need, let alone what you want._ Shelagh plunged her hands into the water. Suds flew up and floated down like snowflakes. She grabbed the first thing her fingers encountered – a saucer – and scrubbed it with her sponge till her fingers ached.

"You will not blame this on me," she said through gritted teeth.

 _Why not? You wouldn't even have had the interview if it wasn't for you. If you weren't broken inside, if you could simply give him a child…_

"NO!" She gripped the saucer with such force that it snapped. A fragment nicked her fingertip. Shelagh gasped and pulled her hand out of the water; a red ribbon travelled along her finger, pooling in her palm. She ran her hand under the tap to get the soap out, hissing as the water pounded against the cut.

 _Only this time, there's no Doctor Turner to kiss it all better._ The thought undid her. Tears coursed down her cheeks and a sob tore through her lungs and throat. She felt herself crumble underneath the weight of her sadness; her knees gave way and she sank to the floor, cradling her wounded hand. She drew her legs up to her chest, took off her glasses and put her cheek against her knees. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep the tears inside, but they still slipped between her lids, wetting her lashes till they stuck together.

She just wanted things to go back to normal again.

 _No, not back to normal,_ the voice said. This time, though, it sounded softer, almost soothing. Shelagh pushed her palm against her closed eyes with such force that strangely coloured flowers bloomed on the inside of her eyelids.

 _Things can't go back to normal. Patrick needs to share things with you, and you with him. There's only one way out of this, and that's forward._

"But I can't go forward if he won't let me close," she whispered. She had tried to open up to him; it felt like emptying a bucket into a desert and stubbornly hoping that it turned into a sea.

 _Then give him time. Give him space, and pray that he will tell you everything you need to know this time._

"I don't know if I'm strong enough. I am so hurt."

 _Shelagh Turner, don't be ridiculous,_ the voice inside her head chastised her. _There is strength and determination in you, and love, so much love. You love this man more than anything. That's why it hurts so much. Now, be sensible: have a good cry, then pick yourself up from the floor and learn some patience. Show your affection, but wait for Patrick to come to you; let the window open._ This voice was nothing like hers, yet so familiar. She let it comfort her, rocking herself till her head felt dry and hot and her tears had stopped. Shelagh took a shaky breath and put her glasses back on.

"Give him time, and keep the window open," she repeated, and felt stronger. She knew what it was like to look at a window and be afraid to open it. If Patrick needed time to climb through, she would give him time, even if it hurt.

X

Their reconciliation had taken place a couple of days later. Shelagh had tried to show her husband that she cared, but she had taken a bit of distance, too, allowing him to work through whatever needed working through. He had come of his own accord, then, starting the conversation they so desperately needed to have with the words: "I can remember you sewing a baby's night dress in that chair…"

He had spoken of his reasons for not telling her, and apologised; she had told him that she was to blame, too. He had kissed her hand and they had sat in silence for a little while, content to be near each other and relieved.

"Shelagh…" Patrick started. That familiar shadow ghosted over his features. A tiny stab of fear started in her stomach. She smiled at him.

"Yes, dearest?"

"Did you mean it? When you said you weren't sure we have a happy home?" His eyes flicked to her face. He locked gazes with her, and she could see the fear writ large in his eyes. Her smile faltered. She clasped his hand with hers, anchoring him to her.

"I meant it when I said it, but that's behind us now," she said. He cleared his throat and inhaled deeply, gathering himself.

"I… I didn't tell you, about my past I mean, because I was afraid. I was afraid you would think less of me. I was afraid… you would feel I had deceived you. That you would want to leave. I know things haven't been as you expected when you left the order, but I swear I'll do whatever is in my power to make you happy from now on." His voice cracked on the last word. Shelagh felt her heart break a little at this confession. She didn't trust herself to speak, so brought is hand to her face and kissed his knuckles.

"You silly man," Shelagh whispered, "How could you think that? I've promised to be your wife in good times as well as the bad, in sickness and in health."

"You gave up everything to be with me, and I couldn't even tell you what my nightmares are about. I couldn't tell you!" Something inside him broke at this admission, something that must have lain in his chest for a long time, curled up tight. Tears pooled in his eyes and dripped down at an ever-increasing pace. His shoulders shook and his hands trembled as he tried to wipe his tears away. Shelagh shot forward and pulled her husband close. He hugged her with such force that it was almost painful, snaking his arms around her chest and waist and burying his face against her shoulder. She hooked one arm around his shoulders, placing her hand between his shoulder blades so that she could rub circles there. She placed her other hand on the back of his head, letting her fingertips glide through the short hair there.

"I couldn't tell you," he gasped. She pressed a kiss against his face.

"But we've made start," she whispered.

"Oh God, Shelagh, I love you so much." His words filled the pauses between his sobs.

"I love you too, you silly man. I love you." She repeated the last sentence over and over again, like a prayer. This time, though, the words didn't lose their meaning, but swelled in importance till they were the only thing left that mattered.

X

Shelagh wasn't aware that they had arrived at the adoption agency until Patrick stopped the car and killed the engine. She started from her reverie. Timothy shot from the car and ran up the stone steps of the imposing building. He had been fidgeting the entire ride, probably brimming with questions he knew he shouldn't ask right then.

Shelagh felt her knees go weak with nerves. She closed her eyes and fingered the scar on her palm again to ground herself. Patrick opened the car door and offered her his hand. She gave him a tight smile as she took his digits into her hand. Her fingers were cold and limp.

"Are you nervous?" he asked, lowering himself so that their faces were at the same height.

"Yes," she said and took a shaky breath. Patrick pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.

"Me, too," he admitted. Her heart swelled at this acknowledgement of his feelings; a few weeks ago he would never have said those words.

"But we'll be alright, won't we?" Shelagh asked. Patrick's thumb brushed her knuckles, sending little jolts of electricity up her arm.

"Yes." He helped her out of the car, placing his hand on the small of her back as he guided her towards the building. Timothy was bouncing up and down the steps, shooting them impatient glances.

"We can take this one step at a time," Patrick whispered in her ear, "There's no need to hurry, even if Timothy gives that impression." She smiled at those words.

"I love you," she murmured. Patrick pressed a kiss against her forehead.

"I love you, too."

"I don't think that thing is at all necessary!" Timothy said, his face scrunched up in disgust. Shelagh and Patrick looked at each other and couldn't help bursting out laughing. Shelagh gave the scar on her palm one last rub, then took her husband's hand. With their fingers intertwined she had a hard time imagining that she had ever doubted the notion that they had a happy home. Like the scar on her hand the hurt of their fight would fade, knit together again by kisses. She smiled at that knowledge. They were going to be alright.

 **Because I feel that both Shelagh and Patrick needed a good, cathartic cry. My next fic will probably be about Mrs. Monk and her view on the Turners, and after that a steamy phone conversation between Shelagh and Patrick, so stay tuned for that ;).**


End file.
